The Envy of a Pigeon's Sex Life

Dear Mr. Prime Minister Cameron:

I write this letter with angst from the lush banks of Loggins Park here in London. Without a doubt, the prettiest park in all of Cambridge; my simple park, the park I can see from the terrace of my building. This is the place where good-natured families, open families with day jobs and cultured night lives live out their greatest weekend picnic fantasies. Those of Chaucer and Dickens and Coleridge and Wordsworth under elms and oaks afoot; where paved paths provide passage to enjoy stretches of smoothly sanded sediment save where cracks in said tracks are raised roots spared only for history placed them here far before us. I can’t help myself but to dance pitter patter along these arbors and greens the city has kept so well groomed. The fountain, a Fragonard inspiration rumored of our famous oiled canvas “The Meeting.” Oh what a fond act that always is for sneaky lovers finding ones embrace in a floral garden. Vines creeping up the marble cherubs’ legs like soft butterflies’ fluttering wings in ascent, or fingertips. That was far worth its restoration. It came out shining ship shape like a vintage Aston Martin after a good waxing. Where the eyelids used to be blackened, and the toes corroded mossy green, now defined linear chisels and toenails soo supple and precious, you want to suck on them like you would a baby’s. I recall personally seeking help in such a matter, if I dare care to remember such a pavement pounding task, littering doorways with green fliers, brandishing a microphone and wearing a sign painted “SAVE LOGGINS PARK.” I paced the entrance of my building, calling out to neighbors “rally a few pounds, you will reap leaps and bounds!” That statue has remained polished as the day it was created. If I might whisper so cordially to you, in hopes of this being our little secret, that condition’s not disregarding my Monday midnight touch-ups in my green Hunter wellies with a sheer emery cloth, lacquer spraycan and moist towellette; what our solitary night security watch, Benjamin, misses on his eve off, won’t hurt him, and statues after all can’t talk. How else would the restoration remain so restored? How naïve people could be….I didn’t see anyone else asking that young assistant what he was applying to the cherub’s bum when they first began the project. To be so truthful, I can’t believe these young mothers, so hip and hop and quick with their prams, none of them even inquired of the outrageously staunch smell and whether we as locals, or even these poor unknowing babies in their luxury carts who have become part of mommy’s workout regimen to look fit and sexy to their over-the-shoulder staring glaring cleavage-loving bosses, and yet there they are, babies, breathing it in like some daft construction worker huffing dust onto stubbled fresh lips. My senses are quite fickle. They, like some demonic devil woman I accidentally cut in the Starbucks line, take no hesitation in reminding me when I’m overstaying my welcome in the great outdoors. Itches like a bad case of the you know whats. In this case, it was in fact lacquer. Oh, but I do so love the park, and it’s wonderful inhabitants, even the flower children and their Frisbee tossing antics that take up the entire length of the field “we’ve designated” as an active zone. “We”, I say "we" my darling Cameron, for I mention the informal committee I head that oversees the rules of engagement within the park. A very hush hush informal gathering it is, we just passed amendments to the park guidelines regarding noise levels of participants within. Although it was a difficult proposition, not knowing when to call out a neighbor for their boisterous banter, of course because it could just be a biting chuckle, or a tear-jerking adulterous break-up, but we leave it in a similar discretionary realm as that of a citizens arrest; it should really feel like the right thing to do. And personally, I’ll love you for it, especially if I’m not there to do it myself. I always prefer a teammate, if not two. If I’m not explaining it right, the stipulations posed and passed can be found at City Hall. Just walk right on up those steep cement stairs, past those Idi Amin looking lions, god I deplore those beasts, pardon my swearing, but they really are African jungle lions that would eat a woman if famished, biting, then licking, digesting, and then licking again. I get the whole king of the animal kingdom thing. The all knowing, wise harbinger in control of your life’s puny life, or death at such a moment of interview. Might as well put a hippo there. Two hippos at the top of the stairs, after all, they kill more humans than any creature on the planet. Who knows, I digress. When you walk inside, you’ll find Claudia at the information booth. If it’s not Claudia, it’s probably Harriet. Harriet's pretty much worthless unless you’re asking for the loo. Between you and I, that damned diversity in the workplace initiative has taken away some tit jobs for those better accomplished, but what are you gonna do? Bugger off, I suggest….why bother harping on moot points. That Claudia though, a glorious young woman with too pristine an education for a front desk job, and I’d a figured by now she’d have worked her figure on up the ranks save for the simple scar from her birthed cleft palette. She’ll tell anyone that story over a cup of tea. All you need’s a fireplace, a nip of brandy, and she warms right up. She’ll steer you to the Parks and Recreation Department. All the bylines are in a green two-ring vertical binder with those cute, helpful little fold-over clasps that bend down to secure the pages. "We" safely protected it behind a large repro James Audubon color-rendering of wild birds in aisle A section 127. Take a look when you get a chance, another one of our little secrets.

I apologize for such ramble, although let’s admit, it was informative you’ll agree. It took a lot of time to get the park where it is today, and I value my participation and advocacy in such things. My reason for writing is something of an embarrassing tickle on my tush, a feather flicking Adam’s protruding apples if you will. I do hope it is resolved, however discreetly the killing of animals could be. Yes, that might sound blunt, and yes, it actually is quite blunt, but if I could just let you into the visuals I have stuck in my mind from such feverish strutting, and stopping, and bending, and clawing, and shaking, and ewwww my gracious, the damn visuals. They make me queasy, you do understand…I hope you understand. These shitting little bobbing tramping rats with wings, there are little kids in the park for Pete’s sake, and little Sally’s sake. How cute these young ones are, I don’t think it’s just anyone’s place, whether creature, man, woman or child, or piss-ant pigeon, to be procuring provocative meetings with adamant fluffed up suitors for such services that absolutely are fruitless and only seconds long. They must be fruitless, I’ve never seen small baby pigeons. Where are all the baby pigeons, pray tell, if these awful mud puddle suckers are constantly getting it in? Feathered frickin harlots they are, circling around my fountain like hookers in spaghetti-string panties flaunting their famished fannies knowing damn well that these men can’t control themselves. They’re men for crying out loud. It’s eat, sleep and romp without reason. These breath-holding chest-beaters, puffed proud of their stock perpetually clickety-flicking the heels of his female prize, tracking them all around the fountain for minutes. I've seen one ants-in-the-pants suitor slaving away at her every whim, begging, dipping, breathing, and tippy-toes, tippy-toes.....flying up to the lamppost, shitting, flying down to the slate tile, advancing and dancing, twirling and staring back at one another for nearly an hour! They’re modern day stalkers. Sex addicts without conscience; they’d be put in jail if it were up to me. The first recipients of restraining orders and the backslapping topic of celebration when court-ordered, found guilty and hung by crooked nails through their shit-eating beaks around Piccadilly Square. Round and round the circle you could go staring, up at a chandelier of shame, loose to swing like rubber chickens from a fishing pole. I apologize, my language is just ferocious. Where are my manners? But these women, my God, these raunchy two-legged daylight squatters.....have a little dignity for once won’t you. They open shop for several persistent predators a day. Hunkering down so these fat dumplings of burden can claw their way onto the female's back, and swing their pigeon-pelvis' right round to insert in her bottom. I’ve seen the damned eye open up for a deposit hundreds of times; freakish pink dumpsters of scorn, I swear. A shimmy and a shake, and some jealousy from onlookers typically flying over to break up the union, if you could even call it that, and off he goes. Brazen, satisfied, and over it, he just walks away and leaves her to stew in his soil, the filthy rat. I’ve had enough of this pornography of others in public. It gets my hypothetical knickers in a pickle. My suggestion is a nighttime mass execution on a Monday. I will bring plenty of garbage bags and drag them out like stuffed animals replenishing a Crane game. Like a street sweeper leaves a wet trail, I want a path of skidding feathers. No two-winged doo-dropping terrorists will land in my groomed strip after seeing the streak of scorn heading out toward the dumpsters. They’ll know full well why their brethren will have evacuated. They’ll be irked to ever stop again at a fountain so pristine, so delightfully promiscuous and innocent. Oh no no no, the only eyes that will open to daylight in Loggins Park are those of my neighbors, and mine at midnight, depending what day of the week it is.

-Cheers, Your Friendly Neighborhood Guardian

The Regular

The guy’s flat broke. He hits the same pizza place for lunch on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays because they offer a lunch special. You buy two plain slices of pizza, and choose any can of soda you would like, for $2.75. It’s a steal compared to the $7 soups at Hale & Hearty, or $10 salads at Amish. They have everything, from Dr. Pepper, to Coke Zero, to Stewart’s cream. There are fresh condiments and shakers next to the register. The pizza is cooked in traditional pizza ovens and the cheese tastes real. The best part about it though is that you can eat inside. There’s standing room against a green marble ledge that’s 5 inches off the wall and just barely fits a doubled-up paper plate. Picture a row of guys standing at a urinal. That's what it looks like. The heat gets a bit intense because of the ovens, but it sure beats standing in the cold.

Monday:

Reading his Esquire magazine, our regular can’t understand why this writer, Cal Fussman, gets to interview everyone. Every single page has "interviewed by Cal Fussman" at the top of it. Why should one man get to speak with all these talented celebrities and record their lives? What’s he done that someone else hasn’t?

The Regular: “Why this line” he whispers to himself while reading an interview by Cal. It’s an answers-only article that lists answers of random questions that Cal must've asked.

“Fuck em. Shortest prayer in the world” was one of the answers Cal wrote in the article.

“I don’t get it. It doesn’t lead up to anything but yet it’s taken out of context, and I don’t know what it’s there for” the regular says. “What am I supposed to like Gary Oldman now just because he curses? Who gives a shit.”

A discussion ensues next to him between a heated couple. A column in the wall separates them by a foot, maybe a foot and a half.

Guy: “I told ya bitch, git yo stawies straight. You go cawlin awl yall bitches to git dere opinion yet you and I bofe know, day be trippin on dere mans and don’t trust em fa shit.”

Girl: “So that means day dumb or sumpin? Day know’s dere men like I know mine, and day say all dere mens cheatin” she waves her hands in his face in small circles.

The regular sifts through the article for some cohesive sentiment and finds that he can relate to Gary’s mention of his children. He says they are his greatest achievement in life, but that parenting takes the act of “civilizing” scenarios that would never happen as an adult.

He reads Cal’s quotes that Gary gave him. “There’s no handbook to parenting. Kids will tip the coffee over and then finger paint on the table. At some point you must say, we’re gonna have to clean that up, after all, you can’t paint with coffee on the table.”

He laughs at the raw compromise of allowing for change and accepting that there can’t be none. The kids must play and where they choose is part of their creative outlet. It comes down to it being their life now, and not really yours.

Guy: “So then I’m cheatin? Just caws dese dumb mawfuckers don’t know how to keep day women in check, and treat em right, I fall into dere category? Dat shit’s fucked up bee…fuck you….straight up like, fuck youuuuu.”

Girl: “I aint sayin you’s cheatin without caws. Dis aint jus outta mid air, I heard through da grapevine you’s creepin and that I best be’s watchin my back” she turns her back towards him.

Guy: “Yea you best be’s watchin yo back because I’m bout to end dis shit. What good is ma word if you aint gone listen?”

Girl: “Oh I listen…you damn well know my ass is listenin.”

The regular begins laughing. Cal wrote a line he enjoyed and begins to reflect on some great personal memories that make the statement he read, oh so true.

Guy: “What da fuck you laughin at nigga” the guy says to the regular reading the article.

The regular knew right away that the guy was talking to him. At times like these the regular used to feel his heart drop and his lips go dry. He would freeze up and his heart would race, but not this time. For so many reasons, not this time. He turns and answers with a smirk.

The Regular: “It’s a great line.”

He holds his voice low and slow, and leans his head to the right.

Guy: “Fuck’s a great line? You smiley mawfucka, why don’t you mind yo bidness and keep yo mowff shut.

The Regular points down at his magazine but keeps his eyes thin and holds his stare toward the guy. His stare bore an expression like “who gives a shit about your fucking conversation.” He wore the stare like a mold; like a man with nothing to lose.

The Regular: “No. I said, it’s a great line.”

The guy looks down at the words of the best interviewer of all time. Cal Fussman’s puzzle, taken apart and re-assembled, with all lines like pieces splayed out in a box labeled “taken out of context, my apologies, my masterpiece.” He subconsciously beats you into submission, into loving Gary Oldman. The guy reads the line next to the regular's finger.

Guy: “A beautiful ass is a joy forever” he says lowly.

The regular smiles, and the guy re-reads the line again to be sure.

Guy: "A Beee-youuutiful ass is a joy foreva."

The guy howls when he's done and jumps back from his forward fighting lean.

Guy: “Holla!! Boy’s got it done right there! Nuttin betta kid.”

He steps back and looks at the regular and puts a clenched fist out now smiling. The regular winks and pounds fists with the guy.

Girl: “What? What’s it say?”

Guy: “Nuttin baby….nuttin” he says as a calm comes over him. “Less go.”

The guy puts his arm around his girl and walks toward the door as she looks back over her shoulder at the regular. He's reading again. A chill clears the air as the door shuts behind them.

An Attempt at Short Fiction - "The 3-Day Rule"

Scratching his head, a stray hair lands on his phone. He's been staring at it. Not at the hair, but the phone. He’s debating whether or not to pick it up and call her.

“It's only been a day,” he mumbles to himself. Stretching his arms way up as he looks in the mirror.

"Meeting someone at a nightclub is an automatic disaster.”

He begins to yawn and speak simultaneously.

“It yawlways yidge….”

Pacing his room, he peeks at the clock next to his bed.

"7:05. The perfect time.”

He smiles at the mirror with his arms wide open, shrugging and talking at it.

”There’s some irony there….you’ve gotta admit. You looked at the clock at the perfect time, no? Everyone’s home on a Sunday night at seven.”

He points at himself and bounces his finger in a confirming gesture. His gut says to call, but lately his instincts are far from helpful. He remembers a conversation he had with a girl five weeks ago, right before they stopped seeing each other.

"You come on a bit strong," she said.

"I come on strong?” he exclaimed. “I text you, and then I don't hear anything back for like three hours?"

"Yea so...."

"So ok, well maybe that’s not huge but one of your responses was like - "busy in the dark room."

"Well I was!"

"Well a response like that doesn't warrant a response on my part. It's sort of a smack in the face."

"How?!"

"Because you're taking the time to text me, yet it's a meaningless status text that has no emotion. A text like that should come a little over a year-in, and yet we've only gone on three dates."

"Oh please...I'm the one that contacted you."

"Yea, after a week of me not calling......and that's when you finally texted me "where ya been stranger?" That to me is the "oh no, I'm losing him" text. I'd better touch base, show him I care, but fault him for not reaching out."

"You're nuts."

"Nooo......I just think we have major communication issues...which definitely isn't good this early in the game."

"Well, I don't play games?!"

"My nutsack you don’t…."

Shaking off the memory, he decides to ask some of his friends their opinion. His friend John's been doing well......dating more than just one girl for like five months now. He's his first call.

"Wait, so when did you meet her?"

"Last night."

"No way."

"Why?"

"I would wait until Wednesday, maybe even Thursday, depending how she acted."

"How she acted?"

"How you both acted...towards each other."

John asks, "were you two making out?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Was she excited, laughing a lot, touchy feely......any electricity?"

"Well........"

"Forget it...you're waiting til Wednesday. If you were making out, I'd say call her today. Since you weren't; automatic 3-day rule."

"Yea but Wednesday is four days. "Doesn’t that just look like I'm being obnoxious."

"I'm telling you, Wednesday it is. That's what I'd do. It's not like the girl was sitting there grabbing your junk at the bar.”

"No, definitely not."

"Cause you know that shit happens??"

"Yea, of course….but she wasn't like that."

"How'd you say goodbye? What happened....give me details."

"Well, first off I was with Paul and Kevin....we were meeting Paul's chick at some bar loungy concoction....a real shithole if you ask me. Couldn't hear or see a goddam thing in there."

"Who picked the place?"

"The birthday girl...no one we knew. She wanted to go there specifically, and we found out why pretty quickly."

"What do you mean?"

" Well, we were the only white people in the place, and she was the only one out of the girls, grinding up on some black dude."

"You guys were in an all black club?!"

"Something like that......we had no idea, we'd met these girls in-line outside. Two of them, well-dressed, about our age....white.....and we got to asking if they were there for a party also. And of course, they were...it turns out, it was the same one as us."

"Jesus....that was easy."

"Exactly...which I found so ironic...with the timing and all. I mean, out of the hundreds of minutes she could've strolled up to the place, there we were, standing right behind them.

"What's her name?"

"Who? The girl I met?

"(he pauses)….Wow, you really like her…..”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re making like you don’t know what girl we’re talking about when I ask you a simple question like “whats her name? By re-asking the question, you’re taking time to draw a mental picture of her and replay your memories from the night. It’s obvious.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Ah ha! Even aggression….you love this girl.”

“Easy does it psychiatrist…..you’re blowing this way out of proportion.”

“Sure, sure, whatever you say my man.”

"Well, her name's Sara. By far the hottest girl in there."

"You two, like, dance or anything? How'd you get to talking?"

"Since the place was so crowded, I had nowhere really to stand without getting bumped. All the girls were tucked into this circular booth, and we were just hovering at their feet.”

“Uh huh.”

“A spot on the corner of the booth opened when some chick had to use the bathroom, or get a drink or whatever, and I just went and sat down. She was right next to me.

“What’d you say?”

“I don’t know, something like “you pick this place?”

"Ha! Perfect.....did she laugh?"

"Yea, thank god.”

"So she's got a sense of humor..."

"Absolutely. And you know me, the first question I ask.... "what do you do in your spare time."

“Yup, that’s your fave.”

“And listen to this..... I just so happened to throw her name in at the end.”

"Re-stating her name to show you're paying attention...perfectly played."

"And from that, I got some great information out of her...she's a runner....

"Nice..."

"She's in finance..."

"....double nice."

"She's blonde."

"What?@!!”

“Yup! I know…”

“Hold the phone....you? Mr. I only date chicks with a tan, Mediterranean look about em’ found a blonde that tickles his Newt Gingrichie?"

"Yup. And could you believe!?! A finance chick who loves to run?!"

"No, honestly I can't....you with a blonde?!"

"Oh come on!"

"It's always been straight dark hair, just past the shoulder....tan skin, dash 'a sexy...and you're off."

"Ahh whatevs...you never knew me in high school."

"True."

"Well, she wasn't what I was looking for but exceeded expectations, a hundred-fold."

"You tell her you do triathlons?"

"I hadn't even mentioned it until she asked me what I liked to do....I was still stunned she'd finished two half marathons last year."

"Very impressive, this could be the girl for you bro."

"I know, I thought the same thing."

"I'm not going back on the Wednesday telephone call though."

"Really?! It just seems so weird to me, or sly...... How long did you wait with Ranelle?"

"Let me think…….I met Ranelle with you on a Thursday, right?"

"Yea, either a Thursday or a Friday."

"Right, so...I waited to call her the following Thursday."

"A week?!!"

"Absolutely."

"That's not even the 3-day rule."

"Yea, well she seemed like one of those girls that thinks she's the shit, so I had to let her stew a bit."

"But you really liked her the night you met?"

"Hell yea, instant connection."

"And with an instant connection, you waited a week...."

"Yup..."

"And there you two are, banging away, five nights a’plenty...havin a fucking ball."

"Yesssss sir.”

“You’re a dick.”

“But remember dude, it takes a while. She didn't call me back for two days after I'd left her a voicemail...so don't get upset if you don't hear from her right away."

"No, I won't, but I'm also not taking one doctor's recommendation without a second opinion."

"Oh yea....who you calling?"

"Tommy boy...."

"He's been snagging a couple here and there so he knows what he’s doing...see what he says and let me know."

"Will do my man...thanks"

"No problemo."

Excited as to the progress he's making, he's no longer nervous about calling tonight because he doesn't suspect he will. It's 7:42 and any window of opportunity to make such a call would have to happen before 9:00, otherwise it's just plain rude to call any later on your first attempt. He sets these rules in stone and relaxes. Lying in bed, he starts to dial Tom when he hears a voice yelling through his door.

"I think you guys are nuts!!"

It's his father.

"And your mother thinks the same."

"And why would she think that?"

"Because I'm on the phone with her."

" These walls have any fucking insulation?!"

"He’s complaining about insulation" his dad relays.

"Tell her my life story while you're at it."

"Like you won't?! If you like someone, you should just call them she says!"

"Yea, I agree but it might seem a bit desperate if I'm calling someone the day after I meet them!"

"I dont think so...what if she wants you to call her?"

"I think if she wants me to call her, she'll only build me up more in her mind as someone who's busy and independent, and not overly eager."

"So now you're playing games?"

"I haven't had too much success the last two times so I'm seeking consultation."

"Don't you think you're being a bit hard on yourself...you've only been out of a serious relationship for 6 months."

"I've been outta the game for nearly eight whole years with those two girls....things have changed I guess."

"For that amount of time, you've earned some tactical understanding of women, yet you're doubting your ability to reel em in."

"Please….Dr. Phil."

"You're mother wants to talk to you."

"Oh jesus....where's the phone?"

"Where do you think? The only other one’s in the basement."

He opens his door and walks out in the living room. The walls are ivory-colored and it makes for a much brighter spectacle than his eyes were prepared to handle. He could taste the conversation they'd finished, lingering in the air. Walking through it like a cloud of knowledge and experience, he holds his breath. His father's wearing the velvet robe he's had since 1976. Mom had gotten it for him as a Christmas gift right after they were married. He still wears it even after their cordial divorce. Grabbing the phone, he clears his throat and swallows what's left. His mother's an all-consuming addict for details far beyond the likes of John who just got a hint beyond the short-and-sweet version.

"Hi hunny!" mom exclaims.

"Hey babe, how's things?"

"So what's this I hear, you met someone and you're already applying the 3-day rule?"

"What do you mean..."already"?

"Well, you just met the girl!"

"The best and only time you use the rule is in the beginning, mom."

"I know what it is……what I meant to say is, why ya gonna wait to call her? You've always said you hate girls that play games. They’re the ones that fall for the idiot guy because deep down he really doesn't like or respect them…or something like that."

“Yes, that’s true. I just figure I’ll take a carefree approach. Ya know, the less you act like you care, the more they think you don’t need them.”

“That’s games!”

“WELL! Maybe I don’t know what the hell I’m doing anymore. I figure I’ll try someone else’s advice since I ain't batting a thousand.”

“Oh stop….it can’t always work out.”

“Yea but it was probably me scaring em off.”

“How do you know?!”

“Both of them told me, actually. The first one told it to my face and the other made up some crap about dating a pancake connoisseur.”

“Ha! Pancakes….you’re crazy….you’re being too hard on yourself….pancakes, seriously?

“I don’t know.”

“Jeez…well yea baby, maybe you should listen to your friends then.”

“I know!! That’s what I’m saying!”

“Nah, nah…. I’m just kidding. Stop it. You just need to be yourself.”

“I have been. That’s exactly what I’ve been. Problem is, it’s me being the product of a four year relationship. I’m used to being one way and now that’s too much. Seeing a mirage of potential and becoming excited about it is the worst thing you can do."

“Your imagination can play tricks…you should know that!”

“You know me, I’m all serious and analytical. I just want to make sure she’s smart. That she thinks the goal of life is to discover as much as possible but leave something behind.”

“Come on….you can’t go into it like this…so methodical and deliberate. Have fun! You’re young, you’re handsome….stop thinking so negative. No one’s gonna like the guy standing in the corner with a puss on his face.”

“I’d like a puss on my face.”

“No you wouldn’t.”

“Forget it. “

“Why?”

"Nothing…you didn’t catch what I meant…it was a joke.”

“Oh…hunnie, you need to stop stressing yourself out…these things come naturally. You can’t force them.”

“I know, I’ve been there before.”

“Exactly……see, you’re so smart. You’ve always been so smart. I’m so proud of you.”

“Alright, alright….”

“Well!! You are! Whaddayu want me to say.”

“No, I know, don’t get me wrong, I love your praises…you’re always the best at picking me up. I just know your biased, and let’s be honest, what do I really have going for me where I’m such a catch?”

“Are you kidding?!”

“Don’t answer that, don’t answer that, please I’m begging, it was rhetorical, I apologize. What I meant to say is, this is what parents do….and I figure you’re supposed too. I guess I would if I was a parent. No matter what I do or say you’re going to have my back and tell me I’m the best thing in the world, that my you know what doesn’t stink, that I can do no wrong, yada yada…..and maybe that’s a bit of the problem.”

“What’s the problem?”

“What do you mean, what’s the problem?”

“I lost you there hunnnie, I’m sorry, you said you’re shit doesn’t stink or something and all I could think about was when you guys were little babies, and yes, of course, you get used to it but man, when you first change a diaper…..”

“I got it, I got it….thanks.”

“Well!! It’s the truth sweetie….”

“Yup, for the first time, you’ve told me the truth…and in regards to shit smelling like itself; appreciate it.”

“Oh stop…what were you asking? Tell me again. I’m listening, I promise.”

“Aww you promised, ok then, I re-tell (belittling her in his worst Russian accent).

“Oh shush and just tell me already.”

“I was just saying, part of the problem might be that we’re babied too much, or that we believe we’re god’s gift because we were brought up to believe we’re god’s gift. That we each aren’t just an insignificant drop of rain in a massive ocean that’s been building for billions of years. Like the world revolves around me, like we’re always young and can't make mistakes, and that love is this thing that happens to everyone and that we should never settle because the right one is just around the corner, or because our worth is far more than the worth of the one seeking us, and I don’t mean financial.”

“Well you are worth it hunnie.”

“That’s it right there….if I am, than why do I know deep down that when I call her, it’ll be too soon, too desperate, too stalker?”

“It won’t be! She’s your age, or damn close to it, right?”

“Yes.”

“These girls don’t play games anymore. They’re looking to settle down once they’re past 26 or so. For a guy that knows numbers so well, I figure you should know this.”

“Know this? I am a numbers guy, but understanding the psychology behind a girl’s wacko thought processes has nothing to do with numbers.”

“In a way it does. If she’s too young, it’s not gonna work. If she’s too old, you almost wonder what’s going on and you need to find out some more details. This girl’s right in between right?" Age is numbers.”

“Yea, yea…..however retarded that just seemed, you actually made a shred of sense.”

“That’s a lot for me.”

“I know!!”

She laughs and he follows because she knows she has her moments of excess air just gathering in her brain.

“So just call her already and quit being a baby.”

“Fine! But let me call Tom first.”

“Why?!”

“Love you, gotta go, you’re the best!!!…muah”

“Fine….(she exhales in a monotone gesture) love you too, good luck.”

“Oh stop….you were very helpful.”

“Yea yea, I know, alright. Fill me in when you hear something.”

“Will do.”

“K, byyye”

Dialing Tom, he looks at the clock and it’s almost 8:28pm. He thinks to himself there’s still just enough time to figure it out, it’s not 9 yet. Tom picks up.

“Duder, how’s it heezlin?”

“Decent bro, decent….listen, I’ve got a question for you.”

(Silence)

“Hello?”

“Yea, I’m here” Tom says. “Go ahead.”

“Jesus, Walter Hudson, am I bothering you during a late night snack?”

“No ya douche…I just didn’t think I had to say “Yes Frank, how can I help answer your question my dear troubled boy.”

“Ok, ok, fine…so, here goes, the other night Kevin and I went out with Paul and his chick and we met these girls right.”

“Yea I heard, you met some blondie….I never pegged you for a blonde.”

“Yup, heard it already…I know…it was weird. I never expected it either, but yea so anyway, here’s the question. Can I call her tonight, or is that too soon?”

“When did you guys go out?”

“Saturday night.”

Saturday, Saturdayyyy…..when was Saturday?”

“Yesterday.”

“Jesus Christ…the next day?”

“Shit!”

“You were thinking of calling her the next day?!”

“Yea so, what the fuck’s wrong with that?”

“Come on dude, you know the cardinal rule….it’s gotta be at least 3 days….and ya know what, I even think that’s too quick.”

“Fuck me, both you and John say the same thing.”

“And he’s doing pretty well for himself.”

“How is that too quick?! Like my life’s so goddam busy that picking up the phone to call someone’s impossible. Guaranteed she knows it ain’t imposssssssible. I’m not the fucking President. You don’t think that’s a dick move?”

“Not at all. That is the move, otherwise you’re jumping down her throat. You’re a single white male putting an ad in the Classifieds section “in dire need of female reproductive parts…anything warm place to drop my seed is preferable.”

“Wait, is that with the terrible grammar, or am I just a robot with a dick that works like a human?”

“Shut up.”

“Well, you’re off your ass. Like I give a fuck about fucking her….I barely even know the girl….”

“Crazier things have happened my friend.”

“Right?”

“Right.”

“Crazier things have happened meaning, a guy can call the next day and it can work out?”, I ask Tom.

“No, I meant crazier things have happened where people do sleep with each other in one night, they’re all not just looking to get into a relationship, be married and live happily ever after.”

“Wow, straight from the Charlie Sheen playbook. Like you’re some fucking Don Juan out to fuck anything that walks the streets. Did John call you within milliseconds of me calling and speak like the micro-machines guy to fill you in on everything he said? Because you two fucking geniuses are dopplegangers sitting on my shoulders, reading the same newspaper, shitting down my neck.”

“No, we did not speak, and no, I am not always just out to find sex.”

“Exactly, so the point is, what’s gonna go wrong if I call? She won’t think I’m the mature guy that sees what he likes and goes for it without playing games?”

“Everyone likes games.”

“I fucking hate games!”

“You like games, you just don’t know it.”

“No, I do know them, I don’t like them, but I have to play them if someone is playing them against me.”

“Ah ha!”

“What?! You can’t be Captain Desperate with a girl that’s playing hard to get…what the fuck’s that gonna achieve?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly!”

(Tom’s silent)

“God dammit, would you cut it out with the silent treatment?”

“What?”

“How can I tell if this girl’s playing games, I haven’t talked with her for more than ten minutes?”

“What’d she seem like?”

“She seems like a great girl that wasn’t playing hard to get, has her shit together…a good job, a recently ended relationship…and it was a long one…and I felt a nice vibe going.”

“Eye contact?”

“Yup.”

“Any physical contact?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“What? That’s an important question.”

“Nothing.........there must’ve been a focus group you guys went too on dating that I missed. No, there was no contact.”

“Hmm….”

“But there was body language!” I desperately exclaimed.

“How so?”

“Ummm, I don’t know, kinda facing me when in conversation with others?”

“Are you asking me, or telling me?”

“Yea, there was body language…definitely, and oh, her friend said “absolutely go for it, she’s single.”

“So her friend liked you.”

“Yea, for sure.”

“Well that’s a good thing, because they’ll talk about the night as they head home and you’ll come up somewhere.”

“Well, they did take two different cabs home.”

“Whatever, I doubt that’s the last time they’ll ever talk about that night. Girls do AIM each other at work and shit…that’s like all this girl does everyday at her desk next to me….just random fucking giggling every twenty minutes.”

“Oh my god that’s so annoying…”

“Tell me about it….so I throw her like three glances a day trying to signal the fact that she’s getting on my nerves and she just says “sorry, my boyfriend’s hilarious.”

“Oh Jesus. Why don’t you rub it in there sweetheart….where’d you go to din din last night, did he open the door for you…..how’s he in bed...”

“Wow, you do a good gay voice.”

“I didn’t even realize, and don’t fucking compliment me!”

“Hey, here’s my most recent example….I’m kinda with Carissa now and I waited 5 days to call her.”

“Fucking A, really?”

“Yup.”

“And what’d you say?”

“I just left her a voicemail.”

“That seems to be the easiest way.”

“It’s the only way. You’re not gonna hang up the phone, she'll see the missed call. You’ll look more scared than before if you don’t leave a voicemail.”

“True.””

“You actually think this girl’s gonna pick up the phone?”

“I don’t know, I guess not…John said the same fucking thing.”

“Do you pick up the phone when you don’t know the number?”

“Not usually.”

“Well you didn’t give her your number right?”

“Nope.”

“Yea so, you’ll end up leaving her a voicemail and see if she calls you back.”

“Ok so I can do that then.”

“After four days.”

“Four days?! This is ridiculous! I would hate me if I was her.”

“Well, you do whatever you want to do, but I waited 5 days and here I am, happy as a pig in shit.”

“You know what shit smells like?”

“Shit?”

“Exactly.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s been a long night.”

“Then get some friggin sleep, and don’t fucking call her!”

“FINE!!”

He stands up from his bed and looks in the mirror. This tall standing mirror rests against his wall, just barely missing the ceiling. He turns to the side and sucks in a bit….”not bad” he says to himself while patting his stomach. Breathing several deep breaths, he looks at his phone. 9:01pm. He dials her number. The phone starts to ring. On the first ring he stares back at the mirror and loses concentration on the topics he’d prepared. The second ring blings by and he hopes she doesn’t pick up. He paces towards his hamper and on the third ring his mouth goes bone dry and he almost hangs up.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello?”

“Yea who’s dis?”

“Umm, this is Frank, I was looking for Sara?”

“Sorry bro, wrong number.”

“Oh, (he pauses) …sorry about…”

“Yea no problem…(click).”

He exhales.......

Pushing out all he’d held in, he stares into the mirror with one hand halfway through his hair. He hadn’t even realized he’d pulled it tightly back while talking and still hadn’t let go. He lets go. Sitting down on his bed, the wooden headboard creaks and the mattress sounds like the thumbing of wet Styrofoam. He stares at his phone, her contact details fade to black. The memory of Sara Griffin disappears and anything he’d attached to it. He whispers to himself….”just a drop of rain.”

Several days later:

“So did you ever end up calling that girl we talked about?” his mom asks.

“Yup, I did.”

“You did?! And you didn’t tell me?!”

“Well..”

“Hold on a sec, let me get ready…(this is something his mother does, she runs to her couch to settle in for their nice long discussions)..”

“No need to get all comfy mom….”

“Oh damn, what happened…you waited too long?! She didn’t call you back? She was probably annoyed….I told you!”

“ Nah, nah no…..even worse.”

“Worse? What’s worse than no call back?”

“She gave me a fake number.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Haha, yes…it’s not that big of a deal.”

“Oh you must’ve said something she didn’t like…did you say something? Can you recall what you said? Were you really drunk?”

“No mom, no, not at all. I’m not gonna be an asshole the first time I meet someone.”

“Well maybe you didn’t think you were coming off as one, but maybe you were being tough or macho…I don’t know…”

“I don’t know either…”

“Is it possible you just got the number wrong?”

“I doubt it ma….some girls just give out the wrong number to guys they’re not interested in.”

“Well why would she talk to you? That’s ridiculous, how could she not be interested….you must’ve screwed up the numbers.”

“Come on mom, me, numbers?”

“You’re right. You’re right, that’s right. You’ve always been so good with numbers.”